


Solace and Solitude

by nosmokingpistol



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pre-Regeneration, non-explicit nude picture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 05:36:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13827615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosmokingpistol/pseuds/nosmokingpistol
Summary: The Tenth Doctor began dying the moment he stepped into the radiation chamber. As he said his good bye to those he cherished, he made sure to include his oldest friend and greatest love.





	Solace and Solitude

The Doctor gingerly eased himself down to the ground and moaned softly as his muscles and tendons protested. The short walk to the Cadonwood tree against which he now rested had left him breathless. He closed his eyes and listened to the gentle music of the branches as they swayed rhythmically in the cool breeze. He had planted this tree himself, from a cutting rooted long ago. He had pruned the individual branches lovingly until each tone was perfect and each silver leaf mirrored the one beside it. It had taken centuries, but finally the tree had become an exact replica of its stock. The original tree had grown outside the window of his dormitory at Prydon. The music it played reflected his time there. It was a symphony of fear, anger, sadness and disillusionment. It sang to his soul of ecstasy and desire, of hope and love.

He raised his face and felt the warmth of twin suns overhead. He reached out a hand and carded his fingers through the red grass until the individual blades released their pa’ani—their life scent. Each ray of the suns, every drop of rain, all of the living creatures which had ever touched a fine, tender shoot had left behind molecular footprints that incorporated themselves into the grass and created a unique scent as its calling card. He had planted this grass from seeds he had collected throughout his life on Gallifrey. Its fragrance was his mother, his brother, his children and grandchildren. It was melting snow and the crying birds of Letika. It smelled like home. It broke his hearts even as it made him weep with the joy of memories still sweet. Old memories, untouched by fire and hate, of the cool red grass against naked flesh and cries of pleasure echoing across the valley below Mount Perdition. It smelled like Koschei.

The Doctor opened his eyes and looked out over the sloping fields to far-off mountains and the mighty glass-domed Citadel nestled between them. It was the Autumn of Wild Endeavor and it was beautiful. He could have gazed upon that scene forever. The taste of blood from his bleeding gums and the stomach cramps that made him gasp in pain reminded him that his time was short. He would have to leave soon. He reached into the breast pocket of his pinstriped jacket and withdrew the picture he had carried with him since the day he and Koschei had graduated from the Academy. The week before on a dare from Drax they had stolen one of Borusa’s treasured antiques, a camera from Earth’s nineteenth century, and taken nude pictures of themselves for Romana to find in her dissertation file. The tintype’s emulsion was aged now, sepia–toned and cracked. He rubbed circles over it with his thumb. Areas of the photograph were shiny from thousands of such caresses and the image had faded, but he still treasured it. Oh, how he treasured it and the memory of that night.

They had stolen the camera and taken their pictures of each other and then had gotten drunk on Valerian Ale. They had laughed and made love and then fabricated evidence implicating Drax as the culprit. And as they lay in their bed still laughing at the day’s escapade Koschei had gone suddenly quiet and placed his right hand against his lover’s chest.

“Your hearts, Theta. Your hearts are mine, right?” Koschei’s eyes had burned with an intensity Theta had only dreamed of and he could barely whisper a reply.

“Yes. Always.” Koschei had reached out and taken Theta’s right hand and placed it against his own chest.

“Mine are yours. Et surisa sha suriso, e la k’na’atea” he had chanted in the ancient dialect of the lower caste. Theta’s caste. “They will beat as one until the last star grows cold.” They had clung to each other the rest of that night, each sensing that their time together was growing short. All that had followed—the centuries of anger and betrayal and the madness of the drums—had ultimately led to one brief moment in time at the Naismith mansion. The Doctor had still felt their hearts beating as one even as the Master had been lost to him forever.

A gentle but insistent chime broke his reverie and the Doctor laboriously got to his feet and swayed on unsteady legs. He cried out as another belly cramp doubled him over. He recovered and quickly tucked the picture back into the depths of his pocket. It was time for one last stop.

“Program end.” The holographic images faded and the room was empty now save for a small patch of red grass and the tree. The Doctor didn’t look back. He never saw the clump of hair clinging to its bark. He made his way to the door, down the hallway and through the console room. Every step was now an agony. He paused at the massive coral strut by the exit ramp and donned his long coat for the last time. He rested one hand on the strut and sent thanks to his TARDIS before moving slowly down the ramp. He wasn’t sure he would make it back in time to thank her properly later. It was time to go now, and see one last glimpse of Rose. The Tenth Doctor was dying. Only his memories sustained him as he walked alone into the cold night.

 


End file.
